Monday, June 29, 2015

"End of an Era"

I made the decision to move home about three-four months ago. Yes, move back in with my parents, while I apply for grad school. The decision was one of the heaviest and most strangest decisions I had ever made, and thus even to this day, the day before I leave, my heart is aching and protesting against my decision.

I made the decision to leave as far as I could once I graduated from high school. My parents had been encouraging me to go to UC Riverside or community college, so I could stay close to home. Being the first out of all my siblings and cousins to go to college, I suppose they were a bit anxious about me leaving the nest and going out into the "real world," away from the bubble of high school. Being my rebellious and strong-headed self, I was fighting with my parents all the time, and couldn't wait to leave home for college. I chose San Diego as my new home, the farthest school I was accepted to. I packed all my things and left as eagerly as I did on the first day of kindergarten- no parents, the learning-is-fun mentality, and a whole world of new friends. 

Strangely enough, the first year in college I became very homesick. It was the first time I was truly away from home, and I ended up going home often (every other weekend I suppose) to revel in the comfort of being with my family and my younger siblings, Saturday morning cartoons, and warm Inland Empire weather, a huge contrast to the cooler San Diego weather. 

Once I started getting more involved on campus, holding club positions and jobs and finding my group of lifelong college friends, I started visiting home a lot less. I realized that the times I went home I always felt like I was missing out on things back in San Diego- Fourth of July BBQs, visiting breweries, food adventures, and random inside jokes that were eventually explained to me but without the magic of being there and present. My parents became surprised that I was visiting home less often, and often tried to persuade me to come back. 

When I graduated from college, I still couldn't leave San Diego. I had a boyfriend in the longest relationship I had ever been in, and all my friends became part of my San Diego family. I knew how to get to my favorite restaurants, I had memories of many places over the past several years, and it just felt like...home. I struggled to make earnings to afford my San Diego home, working a few part time jobs, eventually working a full time job in a field I wasn't passionate about, and then ended up taking the leap and getting certified as a nursing assistant- a move I had been trying to make for a year but could not afford to until recently. I jumped into the next job, hoping that this was it- my job would sustain me for the next year while I applied to grad school. However, I ended up being more unhappy, my hours kept getting cut, and I realized I was not able to afford applying to grad school.

I had a decision to make- stay in San Diego and live paycheck to paycheck and possibly move my application period to the next year (when I could hopefully afford grad school apps), or move back home and continue with my journey to grad school. I felt torn. After six or seven years in San Diego, it had felt more like home to me than my home back in the Inland Empire. I knew the freeways, the areas, I knew where to get food when I was craving it, and I had friends to go out and explore the world with. Back at home, I realized I was getting lost when I was driving back from places, and I knew almost nothing about the small town I had grown up in. 

I finally sat down and had a heart-to-heart talk with my parents. They encouraged my decision, and tried to point out the positives- I could save up money, go travel, apply for grad school, spend more time with my siblings, have real cable TV, find a better paying job in healthcare, and not be constantly stressed and anxious all the time. I went back to San Diego and told my closest friends that I had decided to move home. 

It didn't seem real at first. I wasn't too concerned about moving home, and my life continued almost as normal. My roommate suggested I make a bucket list, but my heart truly didn't feel like making a bucketlist, so it wasn't made until we sat down together and brainstormed. I only thought of a few things- The Farmer's Market, scenic places, and a few of my favorite restaurants. Funny enough, through the past few months we ended up adding many more places to the bucketlist- a Padres Game, Sea World, etc- than I had imagined. The past few months seemed to fly by, and it all seemed to suddenly stop on the Saturday before my move-out. We went to a Padres game, walked around and tried different foods and drinks, and had a wonderful evening out with my closest friends and roommates. During the drive there, a couple of my friends were talking about going camping during the summer. My heart lurched at the conversation, realizing that I wouldn't be there for that event, and possibly many more adventures to come. That night, I realized that this was my last weekend in San Diego. Sunday I finished studying for my GRE, and I felt almost depressed, wanting to be left alone but also yearning for interaction. Eventually I snapped out of my depression and went to the gym with my roommate. While on the treadmill, my roommate turned to me and said, "This is the end of an era, isn't it?" I just nodded, not knowing what to say, but in my mind and heart I knew it was true. I had lived almost a fourth of my life away from home in this city, and I had lived it all with my roommates- from freshman year in the dorms to moving to our first apartment off-campus, to graduating with our degrees and living in a house together, we had been there for each other since the beginning. 

To this very moment, my heart still aches and protests my decision, but I know deep down that this is the right decision, at least right now. All this time, I thought that I had fallen in love with the city of San Diego, but I realized that it wasn't the city I was attached to, but rather the memories, experiences, and friendships that were created during my time here. As a friend told me, it isn't the location necessarily, but rather the friendships and connections that make a place meaningful. 

For some strange reason, I have always had trouble with optimism and trust in others and myself. But as my parents and many other people have told me, I just need to have trust and faith that my decision is correct, and have faith in that my friends and family will be there for me, and that I can be there for them. As a friend pointed out, San Diego will always be there, but friends will eventually move away and pursue their own careers and dreams. as such, I shouldn't worry about where I live or where I am going, but rather measure my happiness based on my goals, dreams, and own emotions. Distance is only a quantitative measurement separating people from one another, but true feelings and emotions are not limited by time or space.

As such, even though it is an "end of an era" of my San Diego chapter, there are many other chapters of adventures in the future that I must look forward to. And I will look forward to these new chapters, knowing that I still share love and companionship of those most close to me. 

Sunday, June 7, 2015

Funny how things don't turn out the way we expect

It is funny how things don't turn out the way we expect them. It can be even more frustrating and confusing when we not only expect things to turn out a certain way, but we also strive hard to achieve that end goal or product. I suppose that's just what life teaches us- to make lemonade when given lemons, to make the most of what you have, and to never put all your eggs in one basket.

For instance, yesterday I made an attempt at Indian food. For all those who know me, I love cooking, and I love exploring different foods and recipes. However, people who know me best also know that I am not particularly savvy with cooking, and even less so with baking. Earlier this month, I made a chocolate ganache pie with raspberry and strawberry glaze topping the pie, and although people really enjoyed it, I knew it was only a success because I didn't have to use the oven for it. Yesterday, I tried making oatmeal chocolate chip cookies- with an instant mix from the store!- and it ended up being slightly crispy- or burnt- and flat like pancakes. Why do I have this baking curse, you may ask?

After years of attempting to bake cakes, cookies, tarts, muffins, and other delicious desserts, I realized that I wasn't cursed to be a failure at baking my whole life, but rather I do not have the patience that a baker needs to perfect recipes. In cooking, I love to cut corners, throw spices in and taste-test here and there, and eventually end up with a product I am satisfied with. However, this doesn't seem to work in baking- or at least, for me it doesn't.

After realizing I failed at making delicious cookies from an instant packet- to me, this would be the equivalent of failing at making instant ramen- I decided to continue with my Indian cooking and hope for the best. Throwing in spices like garam masala and tumeric powder, along with my favorite addition to Indian cooking- cilantro- I ended up making seekh kebabs, chicken and potato masala, and chicken and peas biryani, along with raitu (cucumber yogurt side dish). While I enjoyed eating what I had made and felt confident in my cooking, I realized it wasn't the exact same flavor that made my tastebuds dance when I first tried these dishes. The seekh kebabs were missing mint and more spiciness, the biryani ended up being more sticky like khichidi, and the chicken and potato masala dish was too sweet for my taste. I would have rated my own cooking 5/10.

Surprisingly, however, other people who tried it seemed to really enjoy the dishes, so I was taken aback. Had they not had these dishes before in restaurants?! My mere spiceless seekh kebabs were no match for the sizzling, delicious, fiery and juicy seekh kebabs served on those metal plates with grilled vegetables and aromatics, or so I thought.

The next day, I came home from work, feeling so drained and exhausted after working with the patients, and all I wanted to do was shower and crawl into bed and sleep until the next Ice Age. I dragged my feet to the fridge and used what felt like my last ounce of strength in my arms to pull open the fridge door, to find my leftovers from the other day staring me in the face. I contemplated between eating instant noodles and eating my leftovers, and after a few minutes I gave in. I warmed up my leftover dishes from the previous day, and sat down and opened my laptop. Without giving a second thought, I shoved a bite of the seekh kebab in my mouth, only to be surprised by the different spices and flavors that overcame me. My taste buds started to crave more of the flavors, and suddenly I looked down at an empty bowl. Within only a few minutes I had devoured all the food that I had thought yesterday to be tasteless and uninteresting.

So in conclusion, I still think what I made was not up to par with how I expected it to turn out. It definitely was not comparable to my mom's homemade food, and not even close to the hot, fiery and sizzling foods that I had in good Indian restaurants. However, as my mom always tells me, cooking is a process that should be fun and enjoyed, not a stressful experience. If a dish doesn't turn out the way you expect it to be, it is okay! Sometimes we are our own harshest critics. Similar to how a slow-cooker over several hours results in the most delicious stews and dishes to the imagination, the process of learning how to cook and perfect dishes takes time but is worth it in the end. :)